


The Coughing Fall

by IntolerantBonita



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Domestic, Fluff, Funny, M/M, Moriarty is of course left handed, Sheriarty - Freeform, after season 3, jimlock, lot's of coughing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-11
Updated: 2016-12-19
Packaged: 2018-09-07 22:47:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8819113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IntolerantBonita/pseuds/IntolerantBonita
Summary: Prompt:"Why is there a giant pool of blood on my floor?""Okay. First of all; it's not blood. It's cough syrup. Second; that is a very long story." from downwithwritersblock.tumblr.com





	1. Chapter 1

Sherlock walks into the flat, thinking how smooth everything went. But of course, Jim Moriarty has had other plans.

The very first thing he sees is Vince, that is, broadly speaking, terrified. The cat runs away from the kitchen and tries to hide under the sofa, making a huge noise.

The second thing is Jim himself. The man tries to stand up from the kitchen floor but the coughing attack and his left palm, which is bleeding really bad, doesn't make the task easier. In a place where he sits, the floor (as well as man's face and chest) is covered with a red liquid which Sherlock can't recognise - is it possible that blood comes from a different area than his hand? As if it wasn't bad enough, the table stands crosswise at the centre of the room (if you still can call a mess like this "a room", of course).

Sherlock quickly weighs up the situation - he has already learned a lot his from the previous mistakes and now he decides not to reacts so frantically. When he judges that nothing serious has happened, he only stands at an open door with his arms crossed and his legs apart, looking at Jim from the height.

"Jim. What the hell did happen here?" he blinks a few times, trying to get his head around with what Jim has come up this time.

Moriarty looks up at the man, manages only to raise his hand, giving a sign that he needs some help. The younger man rolls his eyes and walks in the depth of the room. He hits James' back harshly a few times unless he finally coughs up the rest of the cough syrup. Jim starts looking for something with what he can clean up the floor, but Sherlock explicitly forbids him doing anything.

"I have to look at your hand first," he said, quickly taking out the first - aid kit and placing it on the coffee table. James looks at him with hesitation, trying to guess his partner's mood.

"Come here, I'm not going to yell at you," Sherlock adds, noticing the other's behaviour.

"I left you alone only for two hours, I had no idea you're such a child, James," he murmurs as he bandages Moriarty's mutilated hand. Although the anger hasn't left him yet, he does his job with care. When he finishes, Jim thanks him quickly, slowly backtracking in the direction of their bedroom. He really wants to stay there till the day ends, but suddenly he hears Sherlock's voice:

"So, would you like to explain me, why is there a giant pool of blood on my floor?" Jim stops over, watching as Sherlock takes a sit in his armchair and crosses his legs.

"Okay. First of all; it's not blood. It's cough syrup. Second; that is a very long story and I am not sure if you want to hear about it..."

"Why do you think I am not curious how have you ruined my kitchen?" he asks again, slowly stroking Vince, that has nestled on his knees.

"Well, for example, I don't know if you have enough time... To be honest, it wasn't even a big deal and we can leave this topic..."

"Oh, don't worry, I have plenty of time," Sherlock interrupts. "Anyways, go ahead, please," he finishes, placing the tips of his fingers in a characteristical way and goes quiet. 

Jim finally notices how foolish he looks - he stands in front of Shirley as if he was a small boy who would soon get an earful from his father. He is ashamed of this feeling and the whole situation in general, but he takes a deep breath anywise. Not caring about another coughing attack, he starts talking.

And a smile full of sympathy grows on his boyfriend's face with every single word.


	2. Chapter 2

One of the normal things Jim Moriarty could be proud of was his health. He was able to count a number of sicknesses he usually had during a year on fingers of one hand. Due to his incredible immunity, he always had the businesses under control. But he hadn't thought that a stupid accident like that would result in such a strong reaction of his body. A speeding bus had splashed him on a pouring wet day and now he had been imprisoned in the flat at the Baker Street for the last week.

He didn't like this situation at all - he didn't see it as a chance to relax but as a dysfunction obstructing his work. If Sherlock didn't suddenly protest, he would currently be at a meeting with his agents and spies and soon the whole London would be infected as well. At Sherlock's prompting, Jim promised not to prepare a bomb attack on a doctor who came for an outcall. According to the detective's guess, James was forbidden to leave a house for the next two weeks.

"Everyone has to go through the spring illness. It's an absolute routine," the doctor said and his words met the man's snort and another coughing attack followed - that happened every time James tried to say anything. "As you can see, Mr James, there is no question about working in your condition," he continued unfazed as he wrote a sick leave, which James threw into a fireplace right after the doctor walked out.

At the beginning, the fact that he ought to do literally nothing didn't bother him that much - he was really weak and he couldn't even think properly. The simplest actions like standing or going to the toilet became a real struggle and caused a headache. When he got a little bit better, he spent most of the day sitting with Vince in Sherlock's armchair.

He had already watched a shitload of baking shows (which he secretly loved) and collected over 20 different recipes; he even promised Sherlock that he would prepare all of the dishes when he finally would be able to stand on his own legs. "So, I hope you're suffering from some kind of an incurable disease," the detective commented, nodding his head and leaving the flat.

"At least you keep my company," Jim used to say to the cat which was lifting his head and looking back at him every time. The black pet was his Christmas gift from Sherlock; to be honest, given to keep James busy at the Baker Street as much as possible. He was perfectly aware that people wouldn't let him take care of a cactus, let alone of a living creature and in the end, James was the one responsible for the animal. As they had planned, Vince was living at Sherly's place, where his partner was supposed to move in after solving some problems connected with his "job". Sherly informed Moriarty about his right to put his two pennies worth into the cat's name and he didn't accept the other's objections at all.

"So far, I will be the one who spends day and night with him and I won't call him Fluffy," he said with disgust. Willy - nilly, they had to puzzle the name together. They almost got into a row and after a week of giving - and - taking, they christened him Vince. Sherlock didn't believe James, the one who came up with the name, that the black animal got this name after a member of Bee Gees - in his version, it was some kind of variation of Vincent van Gogh. Anyhow, a number of Scotland Yard's cases didn't drive down and James was sentenced only to a company of this five-months-old cat for a few hours per day.

As always, he was sitting in the living room, cuddling with Vince in an accompaniment of a chesty cough. The sound became unendurable even for Moriarty; for sure it was time for some medicines. Before Sherlock had left, he told him the small story of his life, how John had bought new drugs for him when he had been moving out, but of course, he forgot to tell him where he could find them.

Although James had spent days and even weeks at the Baker Street, he still had a problem with finding stuff. He wasn't in a mood for scrabbling around. Instead, he delicate put the cat on the floor and went straight to the kitchen, wanting to come up with a mental shortcut.

"Think like Mr Holmes," the thought, standing in the doors and casting a glance at the messy room. He instantly realised that Sherlock had never seen those medicines - the place for them were found probably by John or even Mrs Hudson. "It isn't surprising they don't let him decide about stuff like these, he's such a child... Exactly!".

Finding a folding stool was much more difficult, but he finally managed to take it out of the lower cabinet - because where do you put medicines when you have a small child? There weren't that much paper boxes on top of the kitchen units and he found the right easily. He could see packaging and phials protruding from the box and even Sherlock was too short to reach the object without any problems, what only legitimised his line of thinking.

Jim put the stool in a right place and started blindly moving his hand inside the box. After some time, he touched the bottle of raspberry cough syrup and put it next to the carton. He had never seen a syrup like that destined for adults before but another coughing attack forced him to take medicine anyways. "I don't care, I can even drink a glass of gasoline if it makes me feel better," he thought as he came out, looking for a spoon. He noticed the cat, sitting in the kitchen's doors and peering at him.

He came at his previous place and took the phial with his left hand, in order to pour a little bit of a medicine. But when he tipped the bottle, he felt a sudden pain in his right calf. He looked down and froze.

The claws of these miniature paws were driving into a thin pant leg, hurting his skin at the same time. "Vince, I'm not going to play with you now!" James said in a husky voice, unable to move. The small pet got bored by day-long sleeping and wanted slightly different vibes and now he was probably hanging in the air. If James wasn't the one standing 30 centimetres over the floor with a cat pinned to his leg, able to fall in any second, he would be laughing his ass off at this ridiculous situation. "I am not joking, get out of here!" he tried again, moving the legs back and forth. A little bit of a syrup dropped onto his pyjamas and, not stopping the move, he inclined his head to see how much time he would spend trying to wash this red shit out. And then another cough followed.

Both of his hands were busy and he couldn't help falling - he let the last cough, leant back and overbalanced, straight onto his small friend. He almost forgot about a table standing near the stool. When he was falling, he pushed the table away with his left hand but the bottle didn't survive the movement.

Woozy James barely heard that Vince run away. He wasn't able to say which part of his body hurt the most - he could feel warm blood, dribbling from his hand and the back pain was rising gradually...


	3. Chapter 3

"Sherlock, can you stop laughing? I thought I was going to die!" Moriarty exclaims at Sherlock's reaction. The detective's anger has already disappeared completely. He's almost lying in his armchair, laughing like crazy. 

"Why didn't you just drink this syrup, standing on the floor like a normal human would do?" the man asks between giggles.

"When an individual is sick, he doesn't think properly! Sherlock, I am serious, stop laughing! The situation was dramatical, what if I hurt my hand so bad I wouldn't be able to write anything ever again?!"

"And what if you fell on Vince and he would loose his tale...? You always have the other hand; imagine that, he wouldn't be able to show us his emotions, it would be way more upsetting!" 

But all Sherlock gets as an answer is a sound of slamming bedroom's door. And a dirty floor which he has to clean up now, of course.


End file.
